


My Fault

by Ryan Newman (scrissle)



Category: Jack Griffo, Ryan Newman - Fandom, The Thundermans
Genre: Eventual Character Death, F/M, Zombie, Zombie Apocalypse, serial, unexplained character absence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-07-15 15:55:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7228945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrissle/pseuds/Ryan%20Newman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"International super villains didn't have time for guilt. If a villain stopped every time someone was hurt, every time someone suffered against their deeds––well, they wouldn't have time to continue doing evil deeds, to bring down the superheros they rivaled.<br/>But Max did feel guilty. It was hard not to. It wasn't every day you brought about the apocalypse; and maybe the younger twin often spoke big, bragged about his plans to bring about Doomsday, walked with a self assured swagger that exuded a type of arrogance about his future plans for the word. What kind of an evil mastermind walked around, unsure of his plans, timidly sharing his ideals for the revolution?<br/>The thing was, though, that this was an accident. He didn't know the super-virus he had so meticulously designed––so carefully fashioned, revised and planned––was going to backfire like this; he didn't know it would destroy everything he loved. His family, his friends, his girlfriend...himself."</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Fault

**Author's Note:**

> Basically Max causes the apocalypse because Phoebe hurts his feelings. That's obviously making fun of my own story, buT HEY. 
> 
> Inspired by this post http://lucayathegood.tumblr.com/post/142867084501. 
> 
> No Thundercest, but there will be some brother/sister moments. STRICTLY familial. So if you're here for Thundercest, sorry, you're going to be disappointed. Just getting that warning out of the way now.
> 
> There will be Mallison. Probably lots of Mallison and lots of development for Allison. If you don't like Allison/Mallison/Ryan, I really don't suggest you read this.

What Max hated most was that it was his fault. As a general rule, Maximus Octavius Thunderman did not feel guilt. International super villains didn't have time for guilt. If a villain stopped every time someone was hurt, every time someone suffered against their deeds––well, they wouldn't have time to continue doing evil deeds, to bring down the superheros they rivaled. 

But Max did feel guilty. It was hard not to. It wasn't every day you brought about the apocalypse; and maybe the younger twin often spoke big, bragged about his plans to bring about Doomsday, walked with a self assured swagger that exuded a type of arrogance about his future plans for the word. What kind of an evil mastermind walked around, unsure of his plans, timidly sharing his ideals for the revolution?

The thing was, though, that this was an accident. One giant mistake that––well, honestly, was sort of Phoebe's fault, anyway. But maybe it wasn't. He wanted to tell himself it was, but he knew very well that it wasn't. He didn't know the super-virus he had so meticulously designed––so carefully fashioned, revised and planned––was going to backfire like this; he didn't know it would destroy everything he loved. His family, his friends, his girlfriend...himself. 

Max had a heart. He didn't want people to die. He craved chaos, reveled in mischief, worshipped anarchy...but he wasn't malicious, wasn't cruel, wasn't...this. Sure, he was a troublemaker, and he wanted freedom to do as he pleased. But, ultimately, he wanted that for everyone. Being raised in a family that was good above all else––a singular chaotic neutral in a home of lawful goods––it was maddening. Max thirsted for freedom, or individuality. Rules were made to be broken, written to be bent. No one in his family had ever understood that; when you were a Thunderman, there was no room for chaos, for freedom, for rule-bending. They were protectors, slaves to the law and above all else heroes. Max didn't fit in the picture perfect puzzle that was the Thundermans, and he never had. Especially when he was Phoebe's twin sister.

It was a Tuesday. The Florida air was a blistering, humid sauna that devoured any outside moisture and refused to spit it out. Max could feel the sunburn rising out from under his skin in microscopic pinpricks, perspiration beading down his forehead. For once, he was eager to get into the school building––where air-conditioning would be waiting. 

Eager to cool down, Max paused mid-step to blow some ice into his hands, coating them thinly.

“Max!” Phoebe chided behind him, always quick to correct him. The eye roll was already forming before she could begin the lecture. “You can’t use your powers in the middle of the street like that. What if someone sees? And, you know,” she smirked, and Max knew the quip was coming before he heard it. “Blowing ice into your hands won’t make you any cooler.”

“Yeah, well…” Max grappled for a comeback, only to realize his wit, once again, was failing him. Instead of a verbal response, he settled for blowing some ice around her feet. “Ha!” Feeling petty triumph, he jogged away from her, leaving his sister to melt the ice herself. 

“ _Max,_ ” Phoebe repeated, shooting daggers from her eyes. 

“ _Phoebe,”_ Max parroted, mocking her. 

“ _Max!”_ The resentment in Phoebe’s voice grew, and she stamped her foot. 

“ _Phoebe!”_ Max continued mocking her, loving the annoyance radiating off his twin. 

“God, Max! Sometimes I get so _sick_ of you!” 

And with that, she stormed off.

Now, Max wasn’t particularly sensitive, but when something did manage to hurt his feelings, it manifested in childish rage. 

And the thing with childish rage is that it festered a need to retaliate with a tantrum. Maybe that's what everything Max did make down to, anyway; one big tantrum to get his way. 

So, he went home. 

His parents would undoubtedly be furious that he skipped school, but as far as Max was concerned, if he gave Phoebe what she  _deserved,_ they'd be too busy cleaning up after him. 

Okay, so maybe he underestimated the size of the mess. 

Sliding down the chute to his lair, he clapped his hands together upon landing and rubbing his palms against each other. “Phoebe gets sick of me, does she?” He monologued to the empty expanse of his room, a habit leftover from Colosso's tenure in his home. “Then maybe she should just be  _sick.”_

It took two hours, total. Thinking back, the whole thing was a blur of chemicals, research and microscopic slides. When he was done, he held a bottle of barely an inch of tangerine liquid. 

If he got in his car now, he'd get back to school in time for lunch.  
  
And then his plan could really begin. 


End file.
